The other day at exactly 7:22pm Clara thrust a pink wrist watch into my face and said, “Look Dad,” in the most disappointed sounding voice that she could construct.

I recoiled in my chair and tried to focus on the object that had been pushed under my nose.  “What?”  I said.  “Is it not working?”

“No, Dad.”  She said, collapsing onto my lap.  “My watch is frowning again.”

“Oh.  Right.  It’s frowning.  You mean, because the hands are like…”  I made an attempt to copy the position of the watch hands using my arms and fingers.  It didn’t work.

She waited until I was done, and then politely pretended none of that had happened.  “I just don’t like it when it’s frowning.  And it was frowning just a few hours ago, too.”

“Huh…  Yeah.  I guess it would have been.  At…”  I looked at her wrist.  “At 4:36 or something it would have looked about the same.”

She nodded and then sighed deeply.

“Clara, I’m afraid this is just something you are going to have to get used to.”  I told her.  “It’s going to be like that several times a day probably.  Clocks are unhappy just as often as they are happy.  You just never can tell with clocks.  They are kind of bipolar.”

She frowned down at her watch.  It quietly frowned back at her.  She slowly shuffled it around to the bottom of her wrist where she couldn’t see it anymore and then she looked back up at me and smiled.  “Okay, there.  Now I’ll wait till it’s smiling again.”

I pat her on the head as she climbed off of my lap and hurried on her way to another adventure.